Of Telly and Books
by sherlockfic
Summary: This is a response to the challenge on Dreamwidth's Sherlock Flashfic - The Case of the Oxford...  I chose a Dictionary.  John Watson is relaxing in front of the TV, listening to the rain outside, when Sherlock comes home - in typical Sherlock fashion!


**This is a response to the challenge on Dreamwidth's Sherlock Flashfic - The Case of the Oxford...**

**I went with an Oxford Dictionary.**

**Not reallly any spoilers I can think of. Just typical _Sherlock_ behavior.**

**Disclaimer: The BBC owns this version of _Sherlock_ and it's characters. I'm just playing with them...**

**I hope you enjoy - this is a fun little snippet!**

_**The Case of the Oxford Dictionary:**_

_**Of Telly & Books**_

Sherlock never told me everything. He never told anybody _everything_ – not at first. He'd start spewing some impossibly connected string of facts and the minute you were hooked, he stopped as if waiting for you to supply the rest of the answer. Looking at you in a challenge as if to say, 'I'm smarter than you and don't forget it.'

He'd wait until the largest audience possible had gathered and then he'd spill the rest of the proverbial beans.

Therefore, I didn't think twice when he asked me to pass him a book.

I'd been watching telly to distract myself from the deep ache in my shoulder brought on by this dismal rain – and yet another Sherlock-induced-injury. 'Hey let's chase this multiple murderer into that dark alley instead of call the police, I'm sure it'll be fine.' Yeah, fine for him. Best not to think about that.

I thought I heard a thump outside the door. I turned down the telly and listened through the rain.

I heard it again. It sounded like someone clomping on the stair and brushing against my door. I distinctly heard clothing, and at least one button, scrape across the wood. I opened my mouth but heard Sherlock's voice.

"It's only me, John."

He was psychic like that sometimes. I shuddered, not from the rain. I settled back down. I hadn't really wanted to get up. I strained my ears and tried to deduce what on earth was going on outside my door. He'd sounded a little out of breath. There was another thump, like a heavy bootstep followed by something connecting with the floorboards.

I decided he was carrying up groceries and since he was the master of deduction, didn't want to ask my help because he knew my shoulder hurt.

That wasn't like him.

Not the deduction part, the caring about mundane things like sore limbs part. Or, for that matter, the caring about obtaining food part.

So, despite the possible grocery-related noises coming from without, they couldn't be grocery-related noises because Sherlock simply wouldn't have gotten any groceries.

Now would be the time Sherlock would come up with fifty different scenarios, share maybe three and head out the door to prove and disprove while in the middle of a sentence about violins.

What could it be? I opened my mouth again.

Sherlock's voice rang out. "I need a book."

I furrowed my brow. I do that a lot. It's becoming habit. I can feel it. "Do you need help with something?"

"Yes, I need a book. Give me a phone book."

"Phonebooks went out with VCR's," I called back.

"What's a VCR?"

He was definitely out of breath. And I wasn't about to get into an explanation in the realm of pop culture, especially ancient pop culture. I'd start with the basics if I ever got into the subject with him again. 'The earth goes around the sun.' I just couldn't get past his not remembering that. Or I'd use that line just to set him off if he was being especially petulant or arrogant. "It's a kind of a sandwich," I said.

"Bring me a…dictionary."

A dictionary? Why? And what did he need one for in the hallway? I asked as much, still hearing faint sounds of thumping over the telly. I'd switched the volume up again. Then I sighed, knowing, if Sherlock was home, I'd have to get up anyway. 'How about some tea, John?' Meaning _Get me a cup_. 'My phone is on the coffee table.' Meaning _It's mere inches from my fingertips if I stretch my arm off the couch so get up, cross the room and hand it to me_.

As long as he didn't cry out, 'I'm bored!' I was safe.

Never could two words produce such bone chilling horror.

I scanned the books. "Oxford or Random House?"

"I don't care, John! Now!"

His voice took on an urgency I'd never heard in regards to needing a dictionary. I selected the big Oxford Dictionary and winced at my shoulder, crossed the room and opened the door.

A man flung into the sitting room, knocking me down. Sherlock came flying in after him like a wild beast, his coat flapping behind his slight form. The man was on top of me, brandishing a knife which he thrust down upon my chest.

Sherlock grabbed his wrist and wrenched him off me but the man gut-punched him and he went down. The guy came back at me as if I'd offended him in some way and was on me again before I could regain my senses, my shoulder throbbing in pain. I struggled vainly, only slowing his murderous intent down as opposed to actually gaining any sort of upper hand.

And then something clipped the side of my head and I lost the battle with the madman.

Strong hands grabbed me and I struggled futilely.

"John. John! It's me."

I looked up and saw Sherlock crouched over me.

"Did he get you?" His eyes were bright, concerned.

"No."

"Hmmm. Well, I'm glad about that. Can you stand?"

"What hit me?"

"I did, I'm afraid. Misjudged the weight of the book and the arc of my swing. But I saved you anyhow."

"Saved me? You mean, after putting me in danger with no warning whatsoever?"

"I told you how life would be at 221 b Baker Street if you moved in."

"Yes, I remember it distinctly. You promised not to talk for days on end and would sometimes play the violin."

"Would you like me to play the violin now?"

"No!" I looked over at the unconscious man and crawled to him. I was a doctor after all. I wanted to make sure he was out cold. "What'd you hit us with?"

"The Oxford Dictionary, of course. You were useful to me just now. Thank you."

"That's a library book!"

"Yes, I know, John. I had you get it for that case I'm working on with the dog lady. It had to be two years old."

"It's got blood on it."

"So it does."

"You can't return a library book that's got blood on it."

"Because it's evidence, of course."

"No because it's disgusting." I shuddered yet again. Only Sherlock would consider its use as evidence over the decent thing to do. "You'll have to replace it. With a _bloodless_ one." I added that last bit because with Sherlock, you just never knew for sure.

"Hmmm." He scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"What? What are you thinking now?"

"Just wondering who I should charge. I needed it for the dog lady case but used it in the teacup scandal. I could charge both, I suppose. I certainly couldn't charge for half a book each. That would just look strange."

I looked strange, I'm sure I did, as I stared at him. "Teacup scandal? This guy is involved with teacups? When did you start this case?"

"Oh, I didn't want to bother you with it. Sorry about the antics." He pointed at the unconscious man. "I didn't want you to know about this one."

"This _one_? There've been more homicidal teacup people in the flat?"

Sherlock held his hand out and waved it back and forth. "Not teacup people, John. Just people."

"Homicidal people?"

"Well, not friends or neighbors. I don't know what you're going on about. You've got another Blog Entry all ready for you, once that shoulder relaxes."

I held up the bloody book. "Sherlock, this is…it's…" I dropped it and pointed to the unconscious teacup guy on the rug. "What about him?"

"I texted LeStrade. He'll be here shortly."

"When did you text him? I never saw you take out your phone!"

"When we were outside."

"In the middle of a fight, you texted…You won't even text when the phone is out of arm's reach. Sometimes when it's _in_ arm's reach!"

"Don't get yourself all worked up. Tell you what, I'll make you dinner. How would you like a VCR? Have you done the grocery shopping?"

My stomach growled almost as loudly as I did.


End file.
